Head Cannon: The Life of Sherlock Holmes
by BreannaAiedail
Summary: I take head cannons from bbcsherlockheadcannon.tumblr and I turn them into short stories. Why did Sherlock start wearing a scarf? What car does Anderson drive? What does Sherlock do to annoy his brother? I am fleshing out the details that make Sherlock and his friends who they are! (I do not own the original ideas).
1. Chapter 1 - The Scarf

**A/N- Hello! As I am a lazy person that does not like to come up with prompts, I take head cannon submissions I like and write down a story for them! I do not own the main plot of this story; it comes from bbcsherlockheadcannon on tumblr, #1460. I just helped add the back story; enjoy!**

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The whispers were following him. They slithered down the hall, poking and prodding at the tall figure. Sherlock flipped up his coat collar, as if it would stop the hissed words. It had no effect. He finally resigned himself to the comments and strode through New Scotland Yard with his eyes glued firmly ahead. If the so-called 'police force' wanted to descend into a group of gossiping schoolgirls, let them.

The object of all the comments was his neck. The night before Sherlock had been in pursuit of a criminal. Intent on staying on the man's heels, he did not notice until too late that he had been led into an alley and a trap. The man turned and attacked Sherlock. In the scuffle Sherlock managed to knock the knife away, but the next thing he knew his back was to the pavement. The bigger man wrapped his hands around Sherlock's neck and squeezed, attempting to strangle the younger boy. Sherlock had wriggled like a fish, eyes flashing as he lost air. He swung his fists wildly and connected to flesh. What he hit, he did not know, but the other man's grip loosened and Sherlock pushed him away.

Quick as an eel he fled the alleyway and took off across London. By the time he had made it back to his dingy flat; cold, miserable, and without catching the criminal; bruise marks were starting to appear on his neck. He eyed them in mirror. They would be noticeable, but he had been lucky. He had his life and his injured pride. He promised himself would not fall for a trap like that again. That he had in the first place was stupid, stupid, stupid! Sherlock growled and flopped in a chair, closing his eyes and entering his mind palace. He had information to add.

Safe in his flat, the bruises had not mattered. Now, the police force and employees were trying to deduce what had left the marks. Sherlock was still new around the station and people had yet to learn his habits. Rumors abounded and although DI Lestrade did his best to keep his team quiet, theories were still made about the 19-year-old boy that suddenly appeared on cases. Even Lestrade did not know that Sherlock chased criminals, and the teenager intended to keep it that way. To Lestrade, Sherlock was merely a consultant with an extraordinary eye for detail. Sherlock was brought in, as he was today, to look at photos of the crime scenes and see if any deductions could be made. Sherlock begged to be taken to the actual sites time and again, but Lestrade was firm: he was a civilian.

"Rough night?" Lestrade's voice broke through Sherlock's musings.

"Hmm?"

Lestrade grinned and bumped Sherlock's arm. The younger man tried not to flinch at the contact. "Looks like you picked up someone who likes to play rough." Sherlock stared blankly at the gray haired man until he elaborated. "The hickies. On your neck."

Sherlock frowned. "They are not hickies, they-" He broke off. He could not tell the DI that he had been chasing criminals; he would lose what little trust he had managed to gain.

Lestrade did not seem to notice Sherlock's hesitation. He simply laughed and chuckled. "We wondered about you, you know. About your 'type', I mean. Good to know you got some action. Come on, I'll show you the photos."

Sherlock retreated as far into his coat as he could, resigning himself to the fact that soon all of Scotland Yard would know of his 'amorous activities'. As soon as he left he promised himself that he would go buy a scarf. He did not want to deal with any more lines of inquiry like this again and a scarf was a simple way to hide the bruises. It suddenly occurred to him that, despite walking through a police station with a neck full of throttle marks, not a single person had recognized the pattern for what it actually was. His lips thinned. People only saw what they expected to see. Still, perhaps that was useful…

He focused on the pictures that Lestrade had set out-such a simple case, really-but part of his mind was still spinning away, finding the nearest store to buy a scarf. He would have to be more careful now to hide his activities from the DI. Still, Sherlock was not about to give up chasing criminals or helping Scotland Yard, as both were leading to a career of the Work. Sherlock's lips turned up at the thought before he wiped the emotion away. Ah…the Work.


	2. Chapter 2 - First Word

**A/N- I do not own; based off entry #1805.**

"Sherlock, can you say Mama? Say Mama. Mama." Mrs. Holmes smiled at her baby boy. He looked back with wide eyes and gurgled. "No, no, Mama!" He gurgled again.

"Darling, what are you doing?" Mr. Holmes walked over, head buried in the paper. His wife swiped the paper and replaced it with their baby son.

"I'm trying to get him to say Mama. You try."

Mr. Holmes frowned at the little face gazing back at him. "Papa. Say Papa." Sherlock merely yawned. His father pursed his lips. "Papa! Papa!" There was no response; Sherlock had fallen asleep. Laughing, Mrs. Holmes took him back again.

"Don't worry about it dear, it will come when he's ready." She hummed to the baby as she went to put him in the crib. Mr. Holmes _humphed_; this was why he did not take care of babies. Such illogical creatures…he rescued his paper off the table and settled into his chair.

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A few weeks later Mycroft was playing—well, watching really—Sherlock. His little brother was intent on putting _everything_ in his mouth. Sighing, the little boy rescued another toy Sherlock had gotten his mouth on. "Sherlock, you can't eat that." The baby, of course, did not understand. He crawled on to the next toy. "No, Sherlock, give that back!" Mycroft screwed up his face. He hated watching his little brother, but Mama wanted to go bring them lunch. He rolled his eyes and pried away another toy.

Sherlock's eyes filled with tears and he opened his mouth. Mycroft knew what that meant: crying. And crying meant that it was his fault. He pushed the toy he was holding back into the baby's tiny hands. Sherlock seemed surprised, but he closed his mouth and kept quite.

A few minutes later, though, Sherlock had found a stuffed cat and was busily chewing on the ear. "Sherlock," Mycroft wailed, "Give it back!" The little boy turned his head away and continued chewing. "Sherlock! Give it back NOW!"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft for a long second and gave a defiant "No!" Mycroft sat back on his heels. Sherlock's first word had been said to him. No. Mycroft had an odd feeling that this was a sign of things to come, but he shook the thought away. Sherlock, however, was forgotten and continued making inroads on the cat's ear. The word _No_ had gotten his brother to leave him alone. Sherlock's little mind started spinning, connecting the word _No_ with _getting what he wanted_. This may do much to explain his later behaviors. Then again, this _was_ Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3 - Smart Car

**A/N – Based off #1361. I do not own the original idea.**

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John and Sherlock were walking through New Scotland Yard's parking lot when Sherlock made an odd noise that sounded disturbingly close to—laughter. John peered up at Sherlock. "You ok?"

Sherlock pointed to a red Smart car. "Anderson."

John looked at the harmless car and then back to Sherlock. "What does it have to with Anderson? I don't get it."

Sherlock made another snorting noise. "It's Anderson's car that he drives. A _Smart_ car. Hah! It lowers the IQ of the whole block!"

John stopped and stared at the car, trying to imagine the incompetent Anderson driving anything that said "smart" on it. His lips curved into a smile and soon he too was laughing.

Lestrade, gazing distractedly out the window, felt his eyes widen at the sight of Sherlock and John laughing. By the time the two men entered his office, however, their faces were blank and Lestrade was left answerless.

**_-Three weeks later-_**

"Anderson!" DI Lestrade called, "Can you run back to the Yard and pick up the bloody equipment you forgot?"

"I didn't forget it, Sam was supposed—"

"I don't want excuses! Now!"

Anderson huffed angrily and stalked off the crime scene. Sam would be in trouble for this later…his thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock slid smoothly in front of him. "Move, freak," Anderson snapped. He did not have time to babysit the psychopath.

"What, forget your toys?" Sherlock's face was a mix of sarcasm and pleasure at Anderson's trouble. "Too stupid to do what you're supposed to? Maybe a drive in your _Smart_ car will help bring up your IQ! Oh, I forgot, your idiodicy would just lower it again. How _can_ you stand driving a car that is so obviously the opposite of your intelligence level?"

John, wondering where Sherlock had wandered off to, walked out of the house just in time to see Anderson punch Sherlock in the face. The dark haired man stumbled back, blood streaming from his nose. Anderson made a go for him again, but John had already crossed the lawn and thrown himself in the way. A short grapple later and Anderson was down, cradling a hurt elbow. "I don't care what happened," John seethed, "but you are _never_ allowed to hit Sherlock. Now why don't you do what Lestrade said and go get your equipment before I report this too him?"

Anderson's face twisted and he pulled himself off the ground. "It was Sherlock's fault! He insulted me and my car!"

John couldn't help it—he laughed. Anderson's face darkened. "The Smart car? You know, have you thought about checking the Smart gauge? It seems to be running a little low."

A few minutes later Anderson was roaring away in his little car while John had a bruise forming on his cheek. Sherlock stood with a cloth pressed to his noise, staring at John. "Oh, don't you even start," the smaller man snapped. He knew full well he should not have provoked Anderson. But after what he had done to Sherlock…. The man in question merely smiled. Anderson was a little too easy to tease. The two turned and walked back to the crime scene. At the door Sherlock looked at John and, quite seriously, announced, "He lowered the IQ of the whole street."

The two men started laughing, despite John's giggled admonishments about this being a crime scene. The rest of the Yard simply rolled their eyes. With those two, anything went.


	4. Chapter 4 - Flowers

**A/N - #1237. I do not own the original idea.**

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"Pull over here," Sherlock directed the cab. John made a sound of protest but his friend was already out in a swirl of coat and paying the taxi cabby. They were only a few blocks from 221B, but there was a chill in the air and John did not want to be dragged off on whatever Sherlock had gotten distracted by. Much to his surprise, however, Sherlock did not set off running down the street, but instead strode into a flower shop.

"The regular, please." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the counter as John stared at him. "Shut your mouth, John, you look like an idiot." John snapped his mouth shut and walked into the store.

"What are you doing?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Buying flowers, obvious."

"But _why_?"

Sherlock did not answer, simply paid the cashier who had returned and left with a small bouquet of flowers. Once at home he disappeared into his room and did not emerge till much later after John had made dinner. Whatever happened to the flowers, John did not know.

It was not until a few months later that John found out, quite by accident. Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening but she had left John the key, saying that if she was not back he could take the left over lasagna in the fridge. He had unlocked the door, walked past the living room, and opened the fridge. He paused and closed the fridge, walking back to the living room. None other than Sherlock Holmes was bent over the coffee table, arranging flowers in a vase. A floorboard creaked and John winced.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson—" Sherlock turned and stopped as he saw John.

John grinned at Sherlock. "You softy! So this is what you've been doing every Friday! I figured you just stopped and talked to your Homeless network or something."

Sherlock's face twisted and he stalked past John. "Shut up."

At that moment the front door closed and Mrs. Hudson bustled in loaded down with bags. Sherlock immediately swooped in and grabbed them, pushing past John again to take them to the kitchen. "Thank you, Sherlock dear! Ah, hello John, did you find the lasagna?"

John nodded, still trying to find his words. "Sherlock brings you flowers?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled lovingly at the coated figure with his head in the fridge and hands full of groceries. "The dear, yes he does. Every Friday; never misses a day!"

John simply shook his head and looked fondly at his flat mate. He wondered why he even bothered trying to understand Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
